


Through The Storm We Reach The Shore

by elena_fisher



Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-10 20:32:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15956981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elena_fisher/pseuds/elena_fisher
Summary: You remember the first time you met the love of your life: Samual Drake.





	Through The Storm We Reach The Shore

You stare at yourself sideways in the mirror. Having spent ages trying to decide which dress to wear for your date tonight, and finally settling on the red one, you are now unsure if you should just call the whole thing off all together. You are now forty-three years of age, you cannot help leaning forward and poking at the crow’s feet that are forming around your eyes, and you think that you are far too old to be dating. But at the same time, you are fed up of being on your own. Soon your daughter will be flying the nest and going to university and you will have no one left to share your life with.

For years now, you have lived in the past, clinging onto a ghost of a relationship that you know can never be. The love of your life died and with him a part of you died too. No man ever had or ever will compare to him. So now you must learn to settle for someone different or else you will be left alone with your memories for the rest of your life.

Satisfied with your outfit, though more like too lazy to change again, you rummage through your jewellery box for something to cover your bare neck. You see the sapphire necklace he had bought you almost twenty years ago now. It seems like such a long time but also only yesterday. You half considered wearing it but you were determined to move so you put it back in the box and select a simple silver pendant. You grab your leather jacket and your clutch bag and exit out the front door.  

 

* * *

 

 

**1987, Boston**

Your legs move as if they are no longer part of your body to the sound of the music. You perform every move with precision focusing on what you must do next but you do it with elegance and poise, trying to avoid a methodical routine. The hall is dark but you can just see yourself in the mirror, gliding gracefully around the room like you were born to do this. The music plays as loud as you can get away with at this hour, Sibelius- your favourite choice, and the music seeps its way into your bones, your flesh and your soul, and it feels like you and the melody are one.

Suddenly, you hear a crashing noise and your focus is lost, causing you to go over on your foot. You feeling a searing pain in your toes as you fall to the floor, whimpering and clutching them tightly to try to numb the pain. “Shit,” you cry, tears streaming from your eyes.

A boy, about the same age as you with deep hazel eyes and messy brown hair, comes running into the room and kneels beside you. “What the hell happened?” he asks as he presses the stop button on the stereo.

“Oh nothing, I’m fine. That’s why I’m sitting here crying,” you snap, wincing as the pain intensifies. 

“Woah okay, I was going to help you but seeing as you’re fine,” he stands up, backing away and holding his hands in the air. He goes back towards the exit, smirking to himself because he knows you will call him back in a few seconds.

“No wait,” you call and he stops, turning on his heels. “I’m sorry. Please help me,” you say with practically no emotion but he chuckles and brings a chair for you anyway, helping you onto it.

“What are you doing here anyway?” he asks, stilling laugh at you which you find incredibly irritating and if it wasn’t for the fact he was the only person around to help you right now you would tell him exactly where he can shove that chair.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“I work here as a cleaner,” he replies, a little too cocky for your liking. “What’s your excuse?”

You sigh as you know you have to tell him the truth. “I was practising. I have a competition soon that I have to win.”

“Are you allowed to practise after the studio closes?” he asks, pulling up a chair and sitting next to you.

You look down at the floor momentarily before looking back at him sheepishly. “Not _exactly_.”

He chuckles again and stands up, walking away from you. You panic a little as you hope he isn’t leaving you or calling the authorities. After all, you were technically trespassing. “Wait here, I’ll be right back,” he says, relieving you a little.

“Really? Damn, I was planning on taking a hike up Everest,” you say, voiced laced with sharp sarcasm. You foot is killing you and the fear that you may not be able to compete in the show is almost too much to bear. You mother is actually going to murder you. These may in fact be your last hours on earth.

“Wow, you really have a mouth on you huh? I wonder what else it can do,” he says with a wink before leaving you alone in the dark room. Did he actually just say that? You’re left breathless by his comment and now you cannot think straight at all. He actually said that, didn’t he?

He comes back several minutes later holding a bucket. “Told you I’d be back princess,” he says. You want to punch him for calling you a princess but you’re more intrigued about what he’s holding. He puts it down by you on the floor and you see that the bucket is filled with ice. You have no idea where he got it from but you’re too feeble to ask. “Put your foot in there,” he orders. You look at it sceptically. It looks freezing and you know it won’t fix your broken toes. “You either let me help your or I call the ambulance and you can explain why you were trespassing.” You sigh heavily, knowing that he is right, remove your ballet shoes and slowly lower your foot into the ice. You winch at the cold pinching you violently but once your foot in completely in and you start to adjust to the temperature the pain starts to ease. “There ya go, wasn’t so hard was it?”

“Thanks,” you mumble grumpily.

“So uh, strict parents huh?” he asks and you look at him in a confused way.

“How did you know that?” you ask and you see that his expression has changed from the cheeky grin to a more sympathetic and somber look.

“I’m guessing. I don’t know many people who would break into a dance studio to prance about to Chopin for the fun of it.”

“Okay first, it was Sibelius actually,” you quip, trying to divert the conversation away from your parents. He was right. They pushed you to be the best but sometimes they pushed you just that little bit too hard. “And second, I wasn’t _prancing.”_

“Alright, my bad.” He laughs but then his expression turns serious again. “They pressure you to do well?”

You nod sorrowfully. You wish you could be allowed free time like the other kids but any time you had that wasn’t to do with school was devoted to being the best possible ballet dancer you could be.

“Ah that sucks. If it makes you feel any better I’ve had a lousy childhood too,” he says, flashing you a half smile.

“Why would that make me feel better?”

“Well you’re not the only one with shitty parents.”

“What happened to you?” you ask him, wondering why you are so interested in this boy’s life. Maybe he was right. Maybe it did make you feel better to think that you weren’t the only one dealing with life’s bullshit.

He reaches into his backpack beside him and pulls out a bottle of whiskey. “Want some?” he asks but you look apprehensive. “Might help to dull the pain.” Being desperate to stop feeling the still persistent agony in your foot, you nod and take a swig. He pulls out a metal mug and pours himself some, handing the bottle back to you.

“Drinking on the job? How very unprofessional of you uh…what’s your name?” you ask, realising that neither of you have actually introduced yourselves.

“Sam Morgan. You?”

“Y/N Y/L/N.”

“That’s pretty. So you asked what happened to me? Well my mom committed suicide and then my dad dumped me and my little brother in an orphanage. And now I’m trying to earn as much money as I can so I can provide for us both. This job is shitty but at least I’m earning” he tells you and it is hard for you to take in.

“Wow that really puts my problems into perspective,” you say, feeling stupid for complaining about your parents. At least you _have_ parents.

“So what? They make you do this?” he gestures the studio floor.

“I love dancing but they put so much pressure on me to be the best and win all the trophies. It’s sucked the fun out of it, you know? That’s why I snook in here tonight, I don’t feel like my performance is perfect yet and the competition is next week. I never get to hang out with kids my own age because I’m always practising. I think this is longest conversation I’ve ever had with someone outside of school.” You don’t know why you’ve spilled your guts to a complete stranger but damn it felt good to let it all out.

“Hey you can’t work yourself into the ground, you’ll burn out. You’ve gotta sleep Y/N,” he says consolingly.

“I know I know. I’m just so scared of what my mother will do if I don’t win. Last time she said I couldn’t leave my room until I’d perfected the move I got wrong. Not even for dinner.”

“Jesus Christ Y/N that’s abuse!”

“Well there’s nothing I can do about it, besides run away. But my parents are like the KGB so they’d probably find me straight away.”

Sam laughs, smiling genuinely at you but also with a hint of sadness behind those gorgeous eyes. You are starting to like this guy, even if you had only just met. “To shitty parents ay?” he says, raising his mug of whiskey.

“To shitty parents,” you repeat and meet the bottle with his mug to make a clinking sound.

“Do you need a lift back?” he asks.

“Yeah please. Though I don’t know how the hell I’m going to explain this,” you say, pointing to your foot that is still in the ice. You have to admit, whilst talking to Sam you didn’t notice much pain and you almost forgot about it entirely.

“Uh, say you feel down the stairs or something.”

“That could work.”

“Think you can walk now?” he asks as he stands up and grabs his backpack and yours.

“I think so. I doesn’t even hurt anymore,” you say, stepping out of the ice and onto the ground. You couldn’t have been more wrong. You are now in total agony and you lose your balance, falling sideways.

Sam acts fast and catches you in his arms as you go slightly dizzy. He pulls you up and steadies you a little. “Okay so you definitely can’t walk,” he says and before you know it he is sweeping you up bridal style and carrying you outside to where is motorbike is parked.

When you see it you nearly pass out. “You want me to get on that thing?”

“Well I mean you could get the bus if you like,” he says, with that same shit eating grin, as the places you on the seat before setting the alarm and locking up the studio.

“Wait, did you finish your cleaning?” you ask him as he gets on the bike in front of you.

“I’ll just come back in the morning before everyone arrives.” He hands you the helmet and you strap it on, worrying a little that there is no helmet left for him. Oh God, what if you crash? Though maybe that is preferable to your mother’s wrath. “You ready for this princess?” You nod, scared like a mouse but you know there is no other way out of this. Why did people ride these death machines anyway? “Hold on tight,” he says as he revs the engine and you start to move.

As terrified as you were, you cannot deny that it is a nice feeling to have the wind lapping against your skin and to see the world go by in a flash. It must have been quite a site for the people you passed by, seeing you ride behind Sam in your pink tutu.

He eventually pulls up just outside your house and at first you are reluctant to get off. You would not admit it to him but you quite liked clinging to him, being so close so his body. He helps you off and to your front door, handing you your duffle bag. “Need some help getting in unnoticed?”

“I think I’ll be okay but thank you.” The two of you stay in silence a few long moments. You don’t want him to leave but you know he cannot stay. You wonder if you will ever see him again. “Goodnight Sam,” you finally say.

“Goodnight Y/N,” he replies with a smile. “See you around.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” you say before walking into your house, trying to keep quiet despite being in excoriating pain. You just manage to get up the stairs without being heard and look out of you window to see him driving off on his bike. With him gone, you brace yourself for the morning.

 

* * *

 

 

You slam the door behind you and now that you are out of sight from everyone but your cat you finally relent and let the tears fight their way through. You remove your red dress, makeup that is now running down your face like it’s Halloween, and you put your comfortable pyjamas on. You try to calm yourself down as you make a cup of coffee but you are mad with yourself beyond measure. You went on a date with a perfectly decent man and yet all you could think of the whole time was your dead ex-boyfriend and how much you wish you were with him instead. You now had to come to accept the fact that you would never be able to date anyone. He owned your heart. How could you give it away to someone else?

As you down your coffee, you turn the radio on to tune out your negative thoughts. The presenter talks for a while about absolute rubbish before going to the next song. As it starts to play you think that it is some cruel trick of nature, taunting you in your lowest moment.

They play your and Sam’s song: With or Without You.

_See the stone set in your eyes_

_See the thorn twist in your side_

_I'll wait for you_

_Sleight of hand and twist of fate_

_On a bed of nails she makes me wait_

_And I wait, without you_

_With or without you_

_With or without you_

The tears begin to form again but this time you are not sad. Instead you smile to yourself and decide to remember the good times you shared with him, rather than the pain of losing him. You may not have him here with you but you will always have your memories.


End file.
